


Spectre

by Peanutbutterer



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peanutbutterer/pseuds/Peanutbutterer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing’s quite what it was, what it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectre

\----

Between the emotion  
And the response  
Falls the Shadow  
~T. S. Eliot

\----

 

\--

You don’t sleep. Don’t need to, can’t – either way the nights are long.

You spend them lying on the infirmary bed, sheets pulled over you out of habit, not necessity, reliving the past. You replay the last two years, a filmstrip projected on the walls of your mind, perfect in clarity and exactly as it happened.

You avoid the years before, your life before, the memories from long ago. They’re foggy, imprecise. Human memories – eroding with time and with distance. You fear dwelling on them in case they tatter with use, disintegrating a little more every time you try to recall.

Besides, you’re not human now, won’t be human again. Nothing is gained by rehashing.

\--

John’s there. Has been since Rodney disabled the electronic bars of your Asurian cell and John ripped you from it, knuckles white, dragging you into his arms and whispering _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._

His constant presence is both a comfort and a curse.

There’s a fire in his eyes that keeps you afloat, but the sadness that threatens to swallow it will be your undoing.

\--

An ache firmly knots itself in your chest. It’s a dull ache, but a persistent one – not quite akin to pain.

Nothing’s quite what it was, what it should be. Sensations are hazy, filtered. You feel like you’re always under a small dose of anesthetic. Dulling, always dulling, but never quite eliminating.

You feel like a specter, a shadow – a poor imitation of what you once were.

\--

They let you outside on an invisible leash. It's short and tight, pulls at your neck with every step, a noose but not. They won’t give you enough line to hang yourself.

You can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

\--

The door to your quarters opens and John walks in, hair wet from his post mission shower.

He crosses toward you and the lamp illuminates the mud specks that mar his cheek. You think about reaching up and wiping them away.

You tangle your fingers together and hold them at your waist.

“Rough mission?”

He sighs and drops down on the couch. “Don’t tell him I said so, but I really do miss Rodney.”

The knot in your chest throbs.

“Elizabeth,” John warns and you know then that the knot isn't yours alone. He can feel it, can see it reflected on your features and knows exactly how it plagues you.

When you don't respond he continues, “Stop blaming yourself, Elizabeth."

But you can’t. You can’t because you are to blame. You’re responsible for his loss, for everything he’s given up.

\--

Two weeks pass and they release you from custody.

John takes you to his apartment; his place is your place. After all – he promised he’d look after you.

“You’re free,” he says, happiness finally reaching his eyes.

You don’t know how to tell him you’ll never be free. You’re eroding, nanites slowly but persistently swallowing you whole.

You order your cheeks to smile and they obey.

They always obey.

\--

You step up to the railing of your new balcony and think that maybe this is it. Maybe this is your salvation.

Staring out across the landscape, you breathe in the enveloping darkness. You try to imagine the blue of the ocean, feel the salted wind, soft and gentle, as it blows your hair across your face. You try to feel its warmth.

Instead, you see moonlight reflected on snow covered peaks, stark and severe; you register the muted chill of winter.

You release the railing, raking your nails up your forearms. Goosebumps ripple in their wake – a programmed reaction, clinical and rote.

You turn and go back inside.

\--

"I don't think this is good for you, John," you say, holding out a stick of butter. "Are you sure you need another?"

He grins and snags the butter. "It's a family recipe," he insists, peeling off the wrapper. "I don't make up the ingredients."

You sigh at the huge pot of potatoes. "Maybe one less tub of sour cream?"

"Elizabeth! Don't mess with perfection!"

You raise your hands in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He points to the cutting board. "Go make yourself useful and chop those onions."

You salute before complying.

"Besides," he says, still grinning, "you don't have to worry. You've got the enviable ability to retain your figure no matter how much crap you consume."

The words land and your eyes snap up and John's smile drops from his lips like a ten pound weight.

"I'm so - I didn't mean," he scrambles before his eyes widen. "Elizabeth!"

You follow his gaze and see where the knife has sliced into your finger. The sight of it triggers the dim sensation formerly known as pain.

He reaches for a towel. "Here, let me wrap that up - are you all right?"

"Fine," you insist and you look down at the onions, splashed with blood. "We're going to need more -"

"I'm not worried about it." He steps up and reaches for your hand. "Let me wrap that."

You jerk away. "No."

"Elizabeth -"

"No!"

For one second he's forgotten, doesn't remember that you aren't human, doesn't realize that the wound healed itself and doesn't need his care. You want that second to last.

But it doesn't, of course it doesn't, and you see the recognition in his eyes, see the towel drop to his side.

"I'm not hungry," you say, ducking your head and fleeing from the room. It's an excuse, but it's the truth.

You're not hungry now. You never will be again.

\--

John steps into the bedroom, shedding his jeans and slipping into sweats, making an effort not to make noise, not to disturb you. It’s stupid, ridiculous, infuriating and he does it no matter how many times you tell him not to. You don’t sleep, he can’t wake you.

You watch his reflection in the vanity, haloed in moonlight as he slides into bed behind you, tucks himself into you. His arm comes around your waist and he pulls you closer. The argument isn’t forgotten – never forgotten, but tucked away. It’s stored like a file on a hard drive, can be accessed or ignored, depending on his whim.

Parts of him are becoming mechanical too.

\--

You take a deep breath, filling what’s left of your lungs and letting the air hiss out through your teeth.

“Where would you be, John?” you ask. “Where would you be now if it weren’t for me?”

He looks up from his coffee. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be in Antarctica – a major in the Air Force with nothing but a black mark and a dead end assignment.”

You shake your head. “That’s not what I meant.”

His shrug is almost imperceptible. “It’s the answer to your question.”

It’s an answer, maybe, but not the one you were looking for.

Not the one you need to hear him say.

"John, you -"

His phone beeps and he turns to read the message.

"I have to go," he says, pushing up from the chair. "We'll talk later."

He brushes a kiss onto your cheek as he walks out the door.

\--

He returns from his mission, battle worn and weary and you give him a moment before launching into your practiced speech - before telling him that you've figured it out. Before telling him that he’s stubbornly clinging to a past that isn’t there, grasping for the intangible and only damaging himself in the process. He’s ruining his life in the pursuit of one already lost.

But when you speak it doesn't come out the way you thought - the anger has subsided, the fervor has ebbed. He's dropped himself onto the couch and closed his eyes and your words can't be anything but soft. “What are you doing here? Why did you leave Atlantis?”

He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, but you don't let him respond.

“You wasted yourself, your life,” you tell him. It isn't a revelation but it needs to be said.

He sits up and shakes his head. “It wasn’t a waste, Elizabeth. Isn’t a waste.” He pushes off the couch and takes a step toward you. “I love you, I _love_ you. I did it for myself as much as for you. You know that.”

You don’t know it – can’t know it because it isn’t logical, doesn’t compute. You are, after all, merely a machine.

“Don’t you get it? I lost, John. I couldn’t hold out any longer, I couldn’t and I didn’t. Oberoth won. He got me, he _has_ me.”

“No. You’re in there, Elizabeth. You just have to find yourself.”

He reaches out for you, but you dodge his advance as you retreat out the door.

\--

"You don't doubt that I love you," he says a later as he slips into bed beside you.

You shake your head. "No, I don't."

"You don't honestly believe I'd chose to be anywhere but with you."

You close your eyes against the moonlight.

"Because I don't doubt that you'd chose to be anywhere but with me," he continues.

"John -"

"This isn't about me or my life - it isn't about us."

"How can there be an us when there is no longer a me?"

He presses a kiss into your shoulder and it triggers the sensation of warmth. You unintentionally arch into it.

Even the smallest echo, the phantom tactile memories pull you in like a powerful magnet, triggering the longing you keep thinking you’ve let go.

He nudges your shoulder and you roll to face him. He reaches for your hand and brings it to his face, using your palm to cup his cheek.

“The receptors in my nerves are responding to your contact,” he says quietly, your hand registering the stubble as it scratches against your fingers. “They’re sending electrical impulses to my spinal chord, releasing chemicals and activating nerves that are transmitting the information to my brain.”

“John –” You try to pull your hand away but he holds it tightly.

“We’re all machines.” He squeezes your hand and brings it to his lips. He presses a kiss into your palm. “It doesn’t matter what you’re made of – you’re Elizabeth. Don’t lose sight of that. Please.”

The knot inside you loosens – just a little – and you remember why you love him. You remember how you love him, what it feels like, how it stirs inside of you. How much he means to you. And you feel it, actually feel it, as it swells in your chest.

\--  
\--

The sun breaks the horizon and you lift the comforter, moving to slip out of the bed. John's arm snakes out and wraps around your waist.

He mumbles something groggily.

"Go back to sleep," you say softly.

He shakes his head and pulls you closer. "You'll escape."

You laugh, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss you.

And you think, for the first time since your rescue, that the part of being human that you’ve retained is the most important part.


End file.
